


so we remain the same

by sleeponrooftops



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Language, Light Angst, M/M, Sexual Content, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-28
Updated: 2012-05-28
Packaged: 2017-11-06 04:02:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/414473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleeponrooftops/pseuds/sleeponrooftops
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They take a small detour in New Mexico on their way to Colorado because Sam is stealing wifi intermittently, and he’s found a shop that looks halfway legit, and he’ll be damned if he lets them keep going around unprotected after Broward County.</p>
            </blockquote>





	so we remain the same

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve had this idea in my head for a while now, and I don’t know when the hell I’m ever going to finish the epic through-the-seasons wincest I’ve got started, so—I figured might as well get this down.

_February 18, 2008._

Even though he doesn’t remember much of the past supposed six months, Dean’s glad to be away from Broward County and that face Sam was making until they finally crossed the border of Florida and into Alabama.  He’d watched as his little brother continued to glance over his shoulder and in the various mirrors, checking for anything suspicious or anything that might be following them.  It wasn’t until Alabama that Dean finally got him to talk, to unwind about all the shit that had happened.  He kind of wishes he didn’t know, sometimes.

 

But that’s neither here nor there, and they’re camped out in Texas, exhausted from taking shifts sleeping in the car and alternating driving, but Sam wouldn’t let them stop, not until they’d put a few states between them and Broward County.  So now they’re in a mostly decent motel room in _Edna_ , but Sam had liked the historical look, and Dean had just shut up and let his brother seek out comfort.

 

Comfort, as it usually did, turned out to be the cute little downtown with its old-fashioned buildings and adorable diner with the plus of beautiful, smiling waitresses, but Dean considered all of that foreplay because then they were settling in for their second night, and he barely got the door open before Sam was crowding him against the wall, _touching_.  Dean gets it, mostly because he’s very physical himself, but he gets that Sam needs to know he’s still there, he’s real and he’s alive and he’s not going anywhere.  Dean lets Sammy take control, if only because he knows he needs to, but, somewhere in him that he won’t admit, he knows it’s also because he likes to let go, to let everything drop away and have Sam just hold him and take him away from this world with his big stupid hands and his floppy hair and that goofy grin of his he gets whenever Dean can’t get his boots off and curses the universe.

 

Later, when they’re a little less tangled in each other and more in the surprisingly not scratchy sheets, Dean lets Sam fold his older brother away in his arms, curls against Sammy because he can, and because that’s all he’s ever wanted in this world.  And if Sam smirks a little at the way Dean rests with his head on Sam’s chest, it’s nothing for the way Dean wants to belly laugh because Sam is stroking a hand lazily up his arm, occasionally curving over his shoulder.  In the end, Dean bites Sam’s collarbone, and then no one’s being girly because they’re rolling over and seeking a whole other level of comfort.

 

In the morning, when Dean wakes, it’s _ten o’clock_ , and he can’t even remember the last time he slept so late, but his half-giant of a brother is still snoring next to him, and it makes him smile.  He thinks of the other hunters he’s met with their stories about trying to settle down and failing, and he knows that he’ll never have that problem because he settled the moment Sam complained about his mullet rock on their way to Jericho.  It had felt _so damn good_ to have his baby brother back, even if he knew that he’d be going back to Jess soon, but then that had all fallen through, and now he just has _Sam_ , his Sam, forever, back to how they always used to be before Flagstaff and Stanford and Hell’s Gate and all this bullshit.

 

“Stop fucking thinking,” Sam’s grumbling voice pulls him out of his thoughts, and Dean looks over to his brother, quirking an eyebrow.  “Some people are trying to sleep, you know,” Sam goes on, pushing Dean lightly.

 

“It’s ten o’clock,” Dean informs him.

 

Sam doesn’t say anything for a few minutes, just breathes slow and lazy, and Dean thinks he’s gone back to sleep when he says, “That’s late.”  Dean laughs out loud at that, and Sam even cracks a smile, opening his eyes.  He shifts off his stomach and onto his back, stretching.  He’s still acting like a cat when Dean disappears into the bathroom, and he calls after him, “How big is the shower?”

 

Dean gives it a look after he’s flushed the toilet, and he hums before responding, “Big enough.”  And that’s how that’s settled, Dean turning on the water and getting in under the spray before Sam even manages to force himself out of bed, but it’s only a minute or so of letting the heat trickle slow over his body before Sam’s getting in behind them, and then it’s all elbows and a pinch or two before Dean presses him against the wall.  At some point, they actually wash up.

 

By the time they’re getting dressed and heading out, Dean’s stomach is grumbling with hunger and Sam is whining, so they head off into downtown, walking because it’s only about five minutes away from their motel.  It’s nice, Dean realizes, nice and easy and relaxed, and he’s not caught up worrying about where this demon might be or that monster might be lurking.  Even Sam’s looking a little better, just relaxed into his booth seat at the diner, no laptop in front of him, no obituaries, and Dean smiles softly, nudging Sam’s foot under the table with his own.  His brother almost chokes on his coffee as he laughs, and that’s good enough that Dean rubs their feet together again before sliding his back to his own space.  Sam looks like he’s going to give him some serious shit as his gaze shifts minutely, but then something strange crosses his face and their food arrives.

 

When the waitress is gone, Dean kicks Sam, who jerks his chin toward the window before turning to his food.  Dean follows the motion with his eyes, not noting anything particularly interesting until Sam heaves one of those obnoxious sighs and Dean just rolls his eyes when Sam digs out his phone.  Trust Sam to be a tool about it and not just _tell_ Dean; no, he has to go to ridiculous lengths.

 

Dean picks at his fries for a few minutes, knowing Sam will try to set him on fire with his eyes if he touches his phone with greasy burger fingers, and he’s just about to give up when Sam puts the phone on the table next to Dean’s drink, nodding toward it.  When he picks it up, he immediately looks back out the window and sees the tattoo shop.  He looks back down at the image, studying it, but something isn’t clicking.

 

“We’d have to modify it a little bit, but that’s the general idea,” Sam says, and there it is.  Dean can already see how they’d have to skew a few things, and he slides the phone back to Sam, nodding.  They’ve talked about this a few times, though he’s wary about it and they’re kind of low on cash anyway.  “We need to,” Sam goes on, digging into his salad, and Dean takes that as his cue that Sam isn’t going to be bitchy about needing clean fingers from him, so he starts in on his bacon cheeseburger, “And I think we should do it while we’re here, somewhere quiet and out of the way, where hopefully no one will look at us funny.”

 

“Sam, that’s exactly _why_ they’ll look at us funny,” Dean says with a small smile, and Sam just rolls his eyes at him.

 

“Well then, what?”

 

“We’ll look for a place on the road, once we’ve got somewhere to go.”

 

“We could follow that lead to Bela in Colorado.”  Dean groans at this, but Sam just keeps going, “I know you don’t want to, but it might be a good idea.”

 

“Who’s to say she’s even still there?  She probably planted a dead trail just to piss us off.”

 

“We need the Colt, Dean.”

 

“We need a lot of things.  We’ll leave tonight, okay?”

 

“Tomorrow morning,” Sam says, and the little smile that quirks his lips is enough to convince Dean.

 

\--

 

Their morning gets off to a slow start because Sam decides he wants to wake up Dean with an easy, slick finger massaging his hole, bringing Dean over the fog of sleep when he pushes into his sleep-slack body, and then Dean’s all hands in the shower before Sam can finally pry them out and force them to pack and hit the road.  Dean makes an absurd happy noise when the Impala rumbles to life and practically purrs beneath him, seducing Dean with two lanes of asphalt and a long stretch of nothing.  Sam teases him about getting off on the car, and Dean just smacks him.

 

They take a small detour in New Mexico because Sam is stealing wifi intermittently, and he’s found a shop that looks halfway legit.  It’s in a small part just outside of the downtown, a wide street lined with various (and colorful) shops, and there’s a few randomly spaced parking lots, one of them a few yards away from the shop.  They turn onto this street with Ted Nugent, windows down in the warm southern air, and, immediately, every head within a noticeable distance turns to the sound of the Impala’s engine.  Outside of the shop, two artists have parked themselves on the curb and are smoking, but they watch, one with a smirk and the other looking a little awestruck, as the Impala purrs into a slumber, _Strangehold_ cutting off.  “Seriously, it’s almost worse when we’re in small towns,” Sam remarks as he gets out, shutting the door behind him, and Sam gets out opposite him, shooting him a look.

 

“What is?” he asks as he comes around, dropping the keys into his pocket.

 

“You getting off on the car,” Sam says, and he barely gets the words out before Dean snorts and bumps shoulders with him, cueing their walk together from the lot, across the street, and toward the shop.  One of the artists snubs out his cigarette and gets up to greet them, holding open the door.  He blatantly checks Dean out, eyes dragging over his body, and Sam grinds his teeth together a little because Dean just _lets_ him.  He has half a mind to put a hand on Dean’s lower back, to claim him, but he knows how his brother would react to that, and he doesn’t really want to be made out as jealous _and_ clearly not getting any for a time.  There’s nothing that gets Dean angrier than Sam feeling like he has to display Dean as his own in public because, as he’s said hundreds of times, _I’m yours, and it shouldn’t fucking matter whose eyes are going where because I don’t give a fuck what they want._ But it does matter, to Sam at least, and this guy brushes right up against Dean before he curls around the counter and gives him his most dashing smile.  Dean, of course, plays right into his hands because that’s how he is when he wants to get his way.

 

“Hey, jackass, you gonna stare at his mouth all day or take his info?” a woman snaps as she comes out of one of the back rooms, and the guy glares at her minutely before shuffling around behind the counter.  “So, clearly Matthew’s not doing you,” she goes on, “Holly’s the name.  I can take care of you two handsome boys, if you’d like.  Moral support or both getting one done?” she asks Sam.

 

“Both, actually,” he says, and she nods appreciatively before turning to the counter, “Matthew, seriously.  Jerk off later, where’s their shit?”

 

“Fuck you,” Matthew snaps as he comes up with a set of papers and two pens, and Holly just smirks and then disappears again down a hall.  When she’s gone, Matthew’s all charm again, smiling as he says, “I need some photo IDs, please.”

 

Sam catches Dean’s gaze as he looks up, and one quirk of Dean’s eyebrow is all he needs before he’s fishing for his wallet, pulling out the license that says Sam Winchester on it.  He’s not really sure what Dean’s up to, but he has a vague idea, and he has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning.  Matthew takes the licenses to make copies, and only when he’s busy doing that does Dean snatch up their papers and pens and turn away from the counter.  Sam follows him to the long couch, dropping down next to his brother, who immediately scoots a little closer, thigh lining up with Sam’s.

 

They fill out their paperwork that way, and all is silent but for the music in the background, the clang of the bell when the other artist outside comes back in, and then, very softly, an inhale too sharp.  Matthew returns a few moments later as Dean is kicking back and Sam is making sure his brother didn’t miss anything as well as making his chicken scratch a little more legible.  “Winchester, huh?” Matthew says in a voice that wobbles just a tiny bit, and Sam gives him a little credit, “Not related to that dead guy, are you?  The one everyone says isn’t really dead?”

 

“Cousin,” Sam says before Dean can because he can see Matthew glancing back down at Dean’s license, the look on his face clearly one of him trying to dredge up what the photos on the news looked like.

 

“What do you guys think, then?” Matthew asks after a minute.

 

Sam stands, bringing over the paperwork as Dean lets a smirk slide up one corner of his mouth.  “Eh,” he says, and Sam hides his grin by ducking his head, “I think he’s still kicking somewhere.”

 

“Alright, boys, what d’you got for me?” Holly interrupts them, and Sam fishes around in his pocket until he comes up with the image he’s drawn, fixing the one he found online.  She looks it over for a few seconds before nodding, “Okay, easy enough.  Where were you thinking?”

 

“Uh, somewhere thereabouts,” Sam says as he gestures to his chest near his collarbone, “About yea big.”  He spreads his thumb and forefinger apart, and Holly nods again.

 

“Sounds good.  I’d say—about two each, that cool?”

 

Sam glances over his shoulder, and Dean’s frowning.  “Are you sure?” Dean asks, and Sam rolls his eyes.  Dean nearly sticks his tongue out before he says, “It’s the last of your college money, asshat, I was just double-checking.”

 

“You’re in college?” Holly asks, looking him over, “Where?”

 

“Uh—not really,” Sam admits, shrugging one shoulder, “Left Stanford early.”

 

“Stanford?” Holly repeats, looking a little skeptical, “You boys are a ways from home—road trip?”

 

Dean snorts, and Sam smirks, “You could say that.  So, uh—how long till we can get it done?”

 

“Gimme an hour, tops.  You can either hang out here or peruse the street for a while.  I do need a down payment, though, non-refundable.  Fifty good?”

 

“Yeah, sure,” Sam says even as he’s fishing out his wallet again.  Matthew takes the opportunity to hand back their licenses, and Sam tosses Dean his before passing Holly a bill.  “An hour,” he says, and Holly just nods as she tucks the fifty into her pocket and heads off with the image.

 

“Sammy,” Dean says, his voice twanging just the slightest with a whine, and Sam all but throws his eye roll at him.  He smiles fondly, though, and Dean gets up as Sam heads toward the door where they _peruse_ for a diner and settle in, waiting until they’ve gotten their food before Dean brings it up, “Do you think she’ll do it?”

 

“She seems lax enough,” Sam says, shrugging, “But I dunno.  It’s unhygienic, for one, which is bad for business, and she might be weirded out.”

 

“Well, we still should ask.  We need them as strong as possible, and we’re already not putting Latin on them,” Dean says.

 

“Yeah, because we’re doing that ritual after,” Sam reminds, “Look, we’ll ask, and if she’s not cool with it, then oh well.  There’s only so much we can do unless we want to try tattooing each other, and no thanks.”

 

In the end, they veer off into chatter about nothing important before they’re returning and being ushered into the back where Holly instructs Sam into the chair and Dean into a plush armchair.  Sam’s bare-chested and staring at the ceiling when Dean sighs.  Holly looks over immediately, quirking an eyebrow.  “Everything good?” she asks as gets up and goes over to close the door.

 

“We have a weird request, something you might not like,” Dean admits, frowning as he retrieves a vial of his blood from his pocket.  Holly opens her mouth, but Dean doesn’t let her start, “It’s mine, and we know it’s not—good practice, but it would really— _help_.”  Sam knows he’s trying to convey without actually saying anything, and Holly stares at Dean for a moment before crossing over to him.

 

“Help?” she repeats, taking the vial carefully, and Dean nods.  After a few seconds, she sighs and nods, “Yeah, alright.  You tell anyone, though, and I’ll find you.  Seriously, I know how to wield a knife.”  Sam and Dean laugh each, and that gets a grin out of Holly before she continues, “I gotta up the price, though, guys.  I’m really not supposed to do this.”

 

“That’s fine,” Sam says before Dean can, “Whatever it takes.”

 

“Two fifty each, alright?”

 

“Yeah, of course.”

 

Holly nods at his approval, and then it’s all business, getting her things together before she’s giving the pedal at her foot a few taps.  As she begins to trace the outline she placed on Sam’s chest, she asks, “So, maybe I’m not allowed, but—help with what, exactly?”

 

“It’s protection,” Dean says, struggling for something that will suffice, “We just—believe in weird things.”

 

“I can dig that.  I mean, it is a pentagram of sorts, after all.”

 

Regardless, Dean drifts away from the topic purposefully, getting Holly to talk about her career as a tattoo artist, and Sam doesn’t participate in the conversation only because Holly pinches him and tells him not to talk unless he wants to muck up her work.  When they switch, Holly whistles and traces one of Dean’s scars absentmindedly.  “Damn boy,” she whistles, and Sam smirks, “I kept my mouth shut on you, sasquatch, but it looks like your brother here has definitely been in a few more scuffles than you.”  All at once, the air in the room has gone heavy and angry.  Holly notices it immediately, and she blinks, straightening in her spinning stool.  Too late, Sam realizes, she’s studying Dean’s face, but Dean seems to get the hint at the same second Sam does because he almost springs off the chair and makes for his shirt, but Holly grabs his shoulder and hauls him right back into the seat.  “Sit down, Winchester,” she grumbles, tapping out a rhythm on her pedal again.  She stays quiet for nearly a minute before she finally looks up again, and she’s not looking at Dean but at Sam.  He swallows audibly.  “So—” she breaks off, frowns, and looks down at Dean’s chest, “These are to protect you from demons.”

 

Sam chokes.  Dean _squawks_.

 

“Oh, yeah, that’s fucking attractive,” Holly says with a roll of her eyes, “Relax already, would you?  I’m not going to call the fucking popo,” she grumbles, pinching Dean.  He flinches, meeting her gaze.  When she sighs, he relaxes, and she only starts talking when she’s began work on the tattoo, “So, you’re supposed to be dead, but that’s a load of bullshit considering you’re sitting right here, and—aren’t you supposed to be dead, too?” she flashes Sam a glance, but he shrugs.

 

“I can’t keep up with it anymore.  How did you—”

 

“Matthew’s obsessed,” she cuts Sam off, “He started freaking out when the news first hit about those murders in wherever the bumfuck it was, and then you supposedly turned up on someone’s radar, so they were like, well shit, he’s not dead.  And he just kept going on and on, so I figured I’d do my own little bit of digging, come to find out your dad was _John Winchester_ —man saved my life from some monster, I don’t know.  But, that’s neither here nor there—or, I guess—whatever, I’m alive, and it thanks to your daddy.  So you two come straggling in and Matthew makes some shit comment about being related to the not-dead Dean Winchester, and then you’re asking for the goddamn pentagrams, and shit—demons are real, aren’t they?  Your daddy made an off-hand comment about this demon he was hunting when he was getting me back home—monster tore my fucking care apart, that was a nice day.  I’m just surprised you two ain’t putting his ashes in this or something.”

 

“Can’t,” Dean says reflexively, and Holly stills her gun, pulling it back and looking up at his face.  He swallows thickly before continuing, “Gotta burn the whole body or there’s a chance for a ghost, and we’re not sentimental about ashes or—”  He stops, and it’s obvious he’s not going to go on this time, so Holly gets back to work.

  
“When did our dad save you?” Sam asks, frowning.

 

“Back in the 90s,around Christmastime, something called a—shit, I think it was just a ghost or something stupid.  He was a good man, though, and I’m not going to turn his sons over just because society thinks they’re killers.  That wasn’t you, was it, that called those people?  That wasn’t you that died, was it?”

 

“Shapeshifter,” Sam answers, and Holly just nods.  She finishes Dean’s tattoo in silence, and they’ve got their own thoughts to work through, so isn’t uncomfortable.

 

When all’s said and done, though, and she’s finished giving them instructions and cream, as well as pocketed Sam’s money, she smiles and says, “Give Matthew a show, yeah?  And stay out of trouble, I don’t want to be donning no black anytime soon.”

 

“If you hear we’ve died, it’s probably not true,” Dean teases, but Sam flinches, and his smile fades immediately.  He looks like that face is coming back, and so Dean actually winds his fingers through Sam’s, squeezing his hand tightly.  They give their goodbyes to Holly, who hangs back in her room, and it’s only when they’ve passed Matthew, hands still laced, when they’re just beyond the parlor and on the sidewalk that Sam wriggles his hand free and curls it around Dean’s jaw, the other one opposite, and he kisses him right there for everyone to see.

 

When he pulls back, his right hand has slipped down to rest over the fresh tattoo, hidden by Dean’s t-shirt and open button-up.  “No more,” he whispers, and Dean has to blink for a moment, banishing tears, before he leans up and kisses Sam again, pulling him down until they’ve definitely done enough public damage, and they head across the street to where the Impala is parked.

 

With the engine purring and the steering wheel beneath his hand, Dean asks for Sam’s hand again with his right, squeezing it once he has it.  “No more,” he promises, and that’s good enough for Sam.

**Author's Note:**

> So that—didn’t go where I thought it was going to. Why does this always happen, seriously? I totally set out for this to be not at all to do with John or anything beyond Holly tattooing them, and then—this literally always happens. I have zero control over what I write, what the hell. But _anyway_ , now that this scene is finally out of my system, maybe I can go back to writing my through-the-seasons wincest—seriously, this thing is stupidly long already, and I’m only on season two. I have so many in-progress fics, I really need to stop. But yeah, here’s my obligatory tattoo fic because I couldn’t resist, and I don’t even really know if I like it, sigh. Leave your thoughts!


End file.
